


The Adventure Of The Honest Maid (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [104]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Honesty, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, Spies & Secret Agents, Treason, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 02:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A face from the past makes a welcome return to our lives, and what starts out as a small domestic matter ends with a government slap-down.





	The Adventure Of The Honest Maid (1889)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'Mrs. Cecil Forrester's Domestic Complication'.

Generally speaking, the people who Sherlock helped (or in some cases, helped to put behind bars) came and went through our lives, and were never seen again. There were a few instances of what one might term 'peripheral players' putting in more than one appearance – I think of Victor Henriksen and his mighty nephew Valiant, and of course the irrepressible Miss Charlotta Bradbury – but when it came to the instigators of our cases, they came, they received the wisdom of my friend, and they left. Except in one or two rare instances, this time concerning a lady whose original case had moved from cheating via social disgrace to murder, and would now reappear to lay before us one of the strangest starts to a case ever.

+~+~+

We were both surprised one fine morning to receive a card sent up by a young lady who required our services, as the name was familiar to us.

“Mrs. Cecil Forrester”, I read. “I suppose it might be a different Mrs. Cecil Forrester, although the name is hardly common. Or perhaps she has just called to say thank you?”

“I doubt that”, Sherlock said. “Remember, she sent a most gracious letter expressing her gratitude, along with that slice of delicious wedding-cake.” He paused before adding, “you _do_ remember the wedding-cake, John?”

I blushed.

“I did not think that you would be back for a few days”, I said. “I did not wish for it to spoil.”

“I telegraphed the time of my return that same morning”, he said archly. “ _I_ like cake. Or at least, I _would_ have liked it.”

He was doing that kicked puppy expression again, clearly trying to make me feel a complete heel for depriving him of a small slice of sugary goodness. The trouble was, it worked - every damn time! I sighed; it looked like I would be making a trip to the bakery that day.

No, I was not whipped! Shut up!

+~+~+

Mrs. Cecil Forrester, née Miss Elizabeth Forrester, thanked us for seeing her and took a chair.

“I feel something of a fraud for imposing on you both”, she said. “I have read all your cases, Mr. Holmes, and noted how you are able to track down the guilty party from sometimes precious little in the way of facts. But I doubt that you have ever started a case from so little as what I have today.”

“I am at your service”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

She took a deep breath.

“It is about my maid, Millie.”

All right, that was unexpected. We both stared at her.

“You see, it is like this”, she said, wringing her hands. “Millie is what you would call slow-witted, but the one thing I would stake my reputation on is that she is as honest as the day is long. Yet.... either she has told me a lie, or something very strange is going on in my house.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She may have dusted dear Cecil's writing-desk yesterday.”

We stared at her, but apparently that was it. Mrs. Forrester was right; this really was very little to go on.

“Was there some reason why she should not have dusted the desk?” I ventured.

“I explain things so badly”, she sighed. “You see, Cecil is wealthy enough not to have to work, but his father, whose death you so cleverly solved, had made Arrangements that he have at least some experience of employment, and had set him up as an army courier. We did not find that out until just after the wedding, and as it was in effect his last request, Cecil felt compelled to honour it. As it turned out he did like the work, and was quite happy to continue doing it.”

“Our noble armed forces employ special couriers to deliver important documents around the country”, Sherlock explained to me, “the sort of things that one could hardly entrust to the general post, however ferociously they guard what is in their temporary possession.” He turned back to our guest. “So your husband's job involves a great deal of travelling to and fro?”

“It does”, she said. “We have moved to a small Sussex village called Three Bridges, on the main railway line between London and Brighton, as that is highly convenient for him. He can be in London quite quickly when needed.”

“Did you not wish to stay in Kent?” I asked.

“We had originally intended to”, she said, “but as I mentioned at the time, developers were interested in acquiring our road for a large number of smaller properties. It came about that one of the other house owners wished to move for his health, and another died and left his house to relatives who did not wish to live there. We all six of us met, and it was decided to accept the developers' offer. My own parents moved to the seaside town of Hove, near Brighton, so they are only a short train ride from our house.”

“And your new house?” Sherlock asked.

“It is wonderful!” she sighed. “Neither Cecil nor I really liked his father's house; it was far too large for us both, even though we do intend... well, we shall see." She blushed prettily. "Our new place is half the size and quite adequate for us. I actually find housework quite therapeutic, but dear Cecil would have a fit if he thought that I did any, so we employed Millie from St. Faith's, a place the other side of Crawley which trains up girls. As I said, she is a little slow-witted, but until this incident I was quite happy with her.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together.

“Is it your opinion”, he asked, “that your maid is telling the truth when she says that she did not dust your husband's writing-desk?”

“I do”, she said firmly. “I suppose that I have no grounds for it other than a women's intuition, but I do feel that she was being honest when I asked her. And I do not see why she should lie, unless she felt worried that my question might lead to her being fired, which is something that I would never do. Yet someone very clearly _did_ dust that desk.”

“The maid dusts the rest of the room as normal?” Sherlock asked.

“She does”, our visitor said. “She does it quite well, although I sometimes go round after her when I am sure that Cecil will not be home early.”

I smiled at the mild wifely deceit.

“Does your husband ever use his desk to store the letters or documents that he is called upon to carry?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head. 

“He does not, as a matter of principle”, she said. “But I have been thinking about that, and I suppose that there may be letters telling him where and when to go. Might they be important?”

I began to feel slightly alarmed. Sherlock had that look on his face that usually presaged his saying something that his client would not like.

“Mrs. Forrester”, he said gravely, “I am beginning to feel that there is more to this case than meets the eye, and that it may be somewhat darker than my first impressions suggested. Let us assume for a moment that you are correct, that your maid is honest, and that she did not dust that desk. Evidently neither you nor your husband did, yet the dust was gone.”

She looked at him in confusion. He sighed.

“ _Someone_ gained access to your home”, he said. “ _Someone_ searched your husband's desk, and only then realized that they may have left fingerprints behind. The obvious way to eliminate them was to clean the desk; they could not know that it was not cleaned in the usual manner. How is it kept clean, by the way?”

I could see that he was distracting her from her rising fears, and it worked. 

“There is a place in Crawley, a mile away, that offers a deep-clean service for properties”, she said. “It means vacating the place for a whole day every three months or so, but that is not a problem. Cecil always empties his desk out before they come; he says that he thinks it stops him amassing too much clutter. They last came two weeks ago, which is why there should have been some dust there. Cecil spotted it when he came home one evening; his job had taken him down to Cornwall for a couple of days. You actually think that someone may have broken into our house?”

Sherlock raised his hand to forestall her concern.

“That is one possibility”, he said. “The other is that someone who was admitted to the house already used the chance to search the desk. However, I see two problems with that idea. Firstly, whoever searched the desk must have spent some time in so doing, as they had to both do a thorough search _and_ then clean it afterwards. A writing-desk is a large object, after all. And secondly, there was the risk of their being disturbed by someone in the house. Where is the desk, pray?”

“In a small room at the back of the house, all by itself”, she said. “It has large glass windows on two sides plus there is a skylight, so the light is excellent.”

“As would be the chance of someone outside looking in”, Sherlock sighed. “Is there anyone that you have admitted to the house lately who, in your opinion, might have done such a thing?”

She reddened. He smiled.

“You had better tell us all”, he said.

“I said that Cecil does not need to work”, she said. “That is mostly true. It all goes back to his grandfather, Colonel Edgar Upwood, who was... well, a character. He was married three times, and every one of his wives left him.”

“The colonel was, Cecil once told me, a man of very high moral character. He expected those around him to hold to similar standards, which, I thought – but did not of course say to dear Cecil – most likely explained the three wives. He left his whole estate to his son, poor Colonel Jeremiah, to be passed on to the eldest of each generation. But there was a clause in the will which stated that, if the person currently holding the estate committed any act which resulted in their serving time in a gaol, then they forfeited it all to the next in line. The holder was also not allowed to sell any part of the estate, only to draw the interest from it as an income.”

“Ah”, Sherlock said. “Now we are getting somewhere. If such a fate does befall your husband, _cui bono?_ Who is next in line?”

“That would be Colonel Edgar's grand-daughter Josephine, Cecil's cousin”, she said. She smiled slightly. “Poor Colonel Edgar would have had a conniption, had he known that a mere _female_ might inherit his lands one day. She is the daughter of Colonel Edgar's elder daughter Margaret, who married a Mr. Joseph Sands. I believe that she is attempting to become a journalist, which I suppose is an acceptable profession for a lady in this day and age.”

I could hear the doubt in her voice.

“Have you ever met her?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“But I know that she lives not far from us”, she said. “In Horsham, some ten miles to the west. A pleasant little town.”

“And have you heard from your husband since his departure?” Sherlock asked.

“Just a short telegram, to say that he had arrived safely”, she said. “It was sent from the Waverley Station, in Edinburgh. He is due back tomorrow, he said.”

Sherlock looked at her gravely.

“This has developed considerably from what was initially a question of a servant's honesty”, he said. “I do not like this at all. Watson, is there anything of import in the “Times” this fine morning?”

I blinked at the apparent _non sequitur_ , but obediently picked up the Thunderer and scanned the front page. Then I gulped.

“Oh.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Forrester asked at once. I really did not want to tell her, but I had no choice. I read the main article.

“'A most strange and alarming incident occurred north of the Border last night. A Sussex gentleman, Mr. Cecil Forrester, was travelling from Bathgate to Edinburgh in order to catch the Night Sleeper to London when he was brutally assaulted by three men in his compartment. There was no motive for the attack, save that the parcel that Mr. Forrester was carrying was stolen, along with his wallet. He is recovering in an Edinburgh hospital, and hopes to resume his journey shortly'.”

Sherlock turned to a stunned Mrs. Forrester.

“I need you to do something for me”, he said urgently.

“Of course”, she said.

“I require that you spend at least one night in London, maybe more”, he said, to the evident surprise of both of us. “I must be frank with you, Mrs. Forrester. I have reason to believe that there may be further developments in this case, and I would rather you be away from your house for a while. I need to put certain arrangements in place, and it will take some little time. If I need you to extend your stay in the capital, I will send a telegram.”

“I will do as you say”, she said, evidently still worried.

“I shall try to arrange for your husband to be transferred to a London hospital, so that you can visit him” Sherlock said. “Watson, would you be able to take Mrs. Forrester to luncheon at the Grand? That will also allow Gaylord to find her a room for tonight.”

“Sir, I could not....”

“Gaylord is my brother”, Sherlock cut in, “and I am sure that he will be delighted to help. Lord knows that he and Bacchus have requested _my_ assistance often enough. Watson?”

I was a little put out that he did not want me with him whilst he arranged matters, but smiled and offered the lady my arm.

+~+~+

“Of course I would have preferred to have you with me”, he told me later. “But as is sometimes the case, I was meeting with one of my acquaintances who barely trusts me, and would certainly not tolerate a second person, no matter how much of literary giant he may be.”

I did not preen at that. Well, not much. And it was really irritating how someone could not-smirk so damn loudly!

“I do hope that the lady's husband is innocent in all this”, I said. “He struck me as a decent boy, the times we met.”

“I am sure that Mr. Cecil Forrester is totally innocent in this matter”, Sherlock smiled. He looked at his watch.

“Are we expecting someone?” I asked. It was getting late, and I wanted to turn in for the night.

“I was expecting Bacchus”, Sherlock frowned. “But perhaps he is waiting for Mr. Forrester to be moved. The hospital in Edinburgh said that his wounds are not too serious, and I have arranged a transfer for him to be in London by tomorrow, courtesy of the night sleeper.”

“Why would the lou... why would he care about that gentleman?” I said, cursing at my too late correction. His eyes twinkled at my calling his brother that, but fortunately he did not comment on it. He yawned and stood up.

“Because he suspects Mr. Forrester of selling national secrets to a foreign government”, he said lightly. “Bed?”

He had gone before I could recover my senses. Not pouting, I joined him and got in beside him.

“You are mean when you do things like that!” I grumbled, wrapping myself around him. He just sniggered at me.

“Thank you for the chocolate cake”, he muttered.

I smiled.

“But I still think that the wedding-cake would have tasted nicer”, he said sadly.

I scowled.

“And stop pouting”, he muttered.

I gave up, and just pulled him closer.

+~+~+

The following day we called on Mrs. Forrester, and escorted her to the hospital whence her husband had been taken. I expected Sherlock to have all sorts of questions for him, but he only spent a few minutes making what seemed some quite dilatory inquiries before leaving the couple to talk. When we escorted the lady back to her hotel, Sherlock asked some rather odd questions about her domestic arrangements, and after we had left her, he immediately went to dispatch a telegram.

“What was that about?” I asked when he returned.

“I am planning for Mr. Forrester to return home on a certain day”, he said. “The hospital told me that they could release him tomorrow, but for various reasons I wish him not to return to Sussex until Wednesday.”

He was clearly not going to elucidate me on his plans. I did not pout, and he rewarded me by taking me back to Baker Street via my favourite dining-place in Trafalgar Square.

+~+~+

Wednesday morning found us bright and early – well, early – and we met the Forresters at Victoria Station. Sherlock seemed quite pre-occupied, but chatted amiably with the couple during the journey to their home station. 

Three Bridges is a junction station on the London to Brighton main line, where branches fork off to Crawley and Horsham in one direction, and East Grinstead and Tunbridge Wells in the other. Hence it was a ridiculously large station for such a tiny village, although I doubted that it would remain a village for long. Railways had that effect on most places. 

Unfortunately the station also came with something that I could have well done without. A smarmy lounge-lizard of a friend's brother who was clearly waiting for us. Damnation!

“I hope that you know what you are doing, Sherlock”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said archly. “This is a matter of extreme national importance, you know.”

“National importance?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly alarmed. “Mr. Holmes, what is happening?”

“I promise to explain all when we reach your house”, Sherlock said soothingly. “Did you bring the men I asked, Bacchus?”

“Yes, but.....”

“Then let us proceed!”

He swept from the station to where a cab had three policemen squashed into it. Sherlock and I took a second and the Forresters a third, leaving the obnoxious lounge-lizard to find his own transport. Ah well. 

It was only five minutes' drive to a small, secluded house, set down a quiet cul-de-sac. I noted that a footpath at the end of the road continued to pass underneath the railway through a small arch, and I could see the steam of an approaching up train as it slowed for the station. The house itself was well-kept and the garden was pristine, a gardener working away on of the beds. Sherlock smiled as we approached, and I also noted that although Mr. Bacchus Holmes' cab was close behind us, the one with the policemen had fallen behind. I wondered why.

Mrs. Cecil Forrester welcomed us all to her home, introductions were made and coffee and cake were served (she had indeed read my books about my friend's tastes in that department!). Once he was suitably re-caffeinated, he sat back and began.

“I have to say”, he said, “that this has been one of the strangest of all my cases. It started with Mrs. Forrester's concerns about the honesty of a domestic servant, and ends with an act of treachery to our great nation.”

Mr. Bacchus Holmes looked as if he was about to say something at that point, but Sherlock gave him a sharp look, and he did not. I did not smirk, although there was something that sounded suspiciously like a poorly-suppressed giggle from Mrs. Forrester. I liked her even more.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “Mrs. Forrester was quite correct in her evaluation of her maid's honesty. I am sorry, dear lady, but I was obliged to make one or two of my own inquiries into the girl, just to be on the safe side, and I am pleased to say that she is indeed all she pertains to be.” He paused before adding, “unlike someone else in this story.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Forrester asked. Sherlock looked at his watch for some reason before continuing.

“If the maid did not dust your writing-desk”, he said, “then evidently someone else did. But who? We know that the house was cleaned from top to bottom two weeks ago – I checked your cleaning company as well, but they too were what they claimed to be – so evidently someone else had been in the house since then. Yet Mrs. Forrester said that she kept no other servants in the house.”

He paused.

“I must admit that I was initially a little slow in seeing it”, he said regretfully. “But then I realized. There were indeed no other servants 'in the house' – _but there might be a gardener outside of it!_ ”

With perfect timing, a shadow darkened the French doors and we all looked up. The three policemen from earlier were there, and in their implacable grip was the young gardener. Mr. Forrester opened the door to admit one of the policemen.

“Abrahams?” he asked, clearly amazed. “You arrested our gardener?”

Sherlock sat back.

“The key to this matter was your inheritance from your grandfather”, he said. “It depended, of course, on your not acquiring a criminal record during your life, for should you have done so, the money would have devolved to your cousin, Miss Josephine Sands. It was therefore in her interests that you did just that.”

“Her choice of journalism as her profession, although unusual, was quite deliberate. It allowed her to quickly acquire an understanding of how the modern media works, and in particular, it gave her access to some people involved in your own job, Mr. Forrester. She quickly saw that, if you were to be found or even suspected of selling the papers that you carry to a foreign government, then the newspapers would be all over the story. But there had to be proof – which was, quite literally, where your gardener came in.”

He turned to Mrs. Forrester.

“Whilst you were in London”, he said, “I am afraid that I took the liberty of breaking into your home. As I had expected, there was a small door adjoining the room where the writing-desk was and, most critically, one of those raffia rugs which are used for corridors that experience heavy use. I then went upstairs and checked your husband's sock draw.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Mr. Forrester demanded.

“Because I wished to see your taste in footwear”, Sherlock smiled. “All your socks are either blue or black – but in the raffia rug, I found at least three threads of brown cotton, one of those close by the door leading out. Evidently someone had come through that exit, and that person had doffed their shoes to try to avoid detection. Unfortunately for them, they had forgotten about the rug.”

I looked instinctively at the gardener's feet, which were quite small. Sure enough, the socks were brown.

“This is how it happened”, Sherlock said. “Miss Sands knows that few things would draw suspicion against Mr. Forrester more than an attack on himself, followed by the 'discovery' of copies of the papers, that he is supposed to keep safe, at home in his own writing-desk. She hires three thugs to steal the current documents that Mr. Forrester is carrying whilst in Scotland and, in a stroke of genius, at the same time visits several embassies of powers hostile to Great Britain, suggesting that she has access to some 'useful information', and asking how much might they pay for it. Naturally this quickly reaches the long ears of my brother who reasons, incorrectly, that the attack was staged and that the husband and wife are in on this ramp together. Wrong, Bacchus.”

His brother scowled at him.

“I asked you, Mrs. Forrester, as to what days your gardener worked”, Sherlock said, “and then arranged to delay your husband's return to one of those days. My brother, I am sure, had had you watched in case you suddenly abandoned him and make a mad dash for the coast and your foreign pay-masters!”

Our hostess turned and glared icily at Mr. Bacchus Holmes, who flinched. I failed to hide a smirk. By some distance.

“So Abrahams here is working for Miss Sands”, Bacchus said, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the way things had turned out. “”I shall be sending some men to her address before the day is out. Horsham, I think you said, Sherlock?”

His brother shook his head, and walked through the French doors to where the two policemen were holding the gardener. 

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he said with a flourish, “allow me to present... Miss Josephine Sands!”

“I do not believe it” his brother scoffed, rising to his feet and crossing to join him. “That is a.....”

He had placed his hand on the gardener's chest, and evidently.... well, the slap she gave him echoed into the room. He recoiled in shock (Mrs. Forrester collapsed in a fit of giggles), and the gardener made a bid to get free, but the third policeman rapidly rejoined his colleagues and they were soon dragging her away in handcuffs.

“So my own cousin tried to frame me?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly shocked at the turn of events. Sherlock nodded.

“In your desk, you will find reasonably credible facsimiles of what pertain to be the sort of documents that you usually deal with”, he said. “The government would of course refuse to reveal any details of those documents on the grounds of national security, so I am sure that a court would have most likely believed claims of your treachery. And yet all is well, if only because your wife was brave enough to approach me over what seemed at the time a trifling little domestic matter. There is a lot said about a women's intuition, but sometimes it turns out to be quite accurate.”

+~+~+

Yes, I did get the address of the bakery where Mrs. Forrester had ordered her wedding-cake. Yes, I did buy another cake for Sherlock. And no, I only did it because I was a considerate and caring friend who was absolutely not whi....

_He was smiling again, damn him!_

+~+~+

In our next case, a friend tries to be helpful and ends up being anything but.


End file.
